


missing

by ScreechTheMighty



Category: Titanfall
Genre: Character Study, Gen, PTSD, Robot emotions, protocol three feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreechTheMighty/pseuds/ScreechTheMighty
Summary: Protecting the pilot takes many forms. A study of how the time BT failed has affected him, and how he upholds his protocols the second time around.





	missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is less a fic and more an extended thought/headcanon in fic form because I have an extensive amount of Robot Feels and there isn't enough fic in this fandom.

In the moments leading up to Captain Tai Lastimosa’s death, BT-7274 had been in violation of Protocol Three.

He could still remember what it felt like. The surge of error messages that occurred as Captain Lastimosa’s blood pressure and core temperature dropped were more insistent than any he’d experienced before. There had been nothing he could do to amend the situation. The Apex Predators had taken all but one of his batteries before they left; he had to spend a considerable period of time re-routing systems to consolidate what little power he had left. Most of that power had been used to defend Jack Cooper from the creatures before he went into low-power mode. He had not been able to get Lastimosa to medical help. He had not been able to remove him from the situation. He could not even advise the pilot on how best to tend his wounds.

Lastimosa’s decision to transfer control to Cooper had been pragmatic. Someone had to complete their mission. Cooper was the only nearby survivor with any pilot training who was not linked to another Titan. They had no other options. But BT had considered that the decision might have been an act of mercy. Transferring authorization to Cooper had ended the stream of error messages. BT was ultimately spared from learning what it felt like to lose an active pilot—the ultimate violation of Protocol Three.

BT had no intention of finding out what that felt like.

Cooper spoke to him often since his re-activation. One night, he asked BT if he’d even been afraid. “Not in the human sense,” BT replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I have been programmed with a negative response to situations that put myself, my pilot, or my other protocols at risk. I believe this is similar to a human fear response. However, it does not include many of the negative side effects, such as panic.”

“Lucky you.” BT remembered the sound of Cooper’s fingers drumming against the control panel in the cockpit. “No anxiety either, huh?”

“That would depend on your definition of anxiety.”

“You don’t…get stuck thinking about things? Bad things that have happened? And no matter what you do, you can’t stop?”

“I think my programmers would consider that behavior a waste of computing energy,” BT said. After a pause, he added, “I do think about Lastimosa’s death whenever you are in danger. While this has made my error messages to potential violations of protocol three more urgent, I do not consider it any other time. So I don’t think that is the same thing.”

Cooper hadn’t said anything for several minutes. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “Do you…miss him, though?”

“I don’t know. What is missing someone like?”

“It’s like…” Cooper had to stop again and think about it. “I keep…expecting him to be there. Like, I’ll come into the hanger and think, _I should ask Lastimosa about taking another stab at the gauntlet._ But, then I remember…he’s not here. He’s dead and buried on Typhon somewhere and I’m never going to see him again. Grief is…it hurts. It’s like how it hurts when you first lose them, but…all the time. Just kind of there, in the background. It’s like…” Cooper paused again. “It’s like…an error message you can’t fix. Like your mind is telling you something is missing, but there’s no way to bring it back, so you have to…learn to live with it, I guess.”

BT understood.

“The first time you piloted,” BT said after some thought, “I thought you had improperly learned to shoot because…we were holding the gun in our right hand. I didn’t realize until later that Lastimosa was left-handed and you are not. I was not specifically programmed to shoot left-handed. I do that because that’s what he did, and he was my first pilot. I learned a great deal from Lastimosa, but not all of that knowledge is applicable to situations without him. I am still learning to adjust. It is…difficult, sometimes.” Cooper had been honest with him; even if it were not in BT’s programming to be honest with his pilot, BT would still be beholden to tell the whole truth. “It feels like a part of my chassis has been removed. I can function without it there. But I know it’s gone when it shouldn’t be.”

“…yeah. That’s exactly what it’s like.”

They had not spoken further after that.

BT understood the logic behind including the memory recall: if he could not contextualize his mistakes in relation to current situations, he would not learn from them. Recalling Lastimosa’s death and the pain, for lack of a better word, he had felt during it provided additional incentive to protect Cooper. He was sure that was how it worked for humans, too, though they likely didn’t consider it that way.

That did not make the experience any less unpleasant. BT could understand the functionality behind the recall without enjoying it. Perhaps this was the closest thing to anxiety he would ever experience.

If it was unpleasant for him, it must have been more so for Cooper.

Cooper was resilient—part of the reason Lastimosa had started training him was he showed significant persistence in combat situations (“stubborn son of a bitch” was the phrase Lastimosa had used). Cooper never once broke down, froze, or panicked, even in moments of uncertainty on the field. He could be hesitant; in fact, he deferred to BT more than anyone he’d met before. That was only inexperience, however. Cooper was learning more, offering more suggestions, becoming more adept in combat and emergency situations. That was alleviating some of the heightened adherence to Protocol Three caused by pilot inexperience.

When the mission was over, however, Cooper’s behavior changed significantly, deviating both from his usual behavior and Lastimosa’s own behavior. This was not to say that Lastimosa did not have his own difficulties post-combat. He was prone to hyper vigilance after lengthy missions, even in safe locations such as the base. BT knew that he kept a knife near him at all times. He spoke to one of their medical specialists about his mental well-being on more than one occasion, a few times at BT’s urging.

He had never, in the 973 days the two of them had been linked, seen Lastimosa cry.

So far, he had seen Cooper cry twice.

Cooper was also prone to sleeplessness, presumably due to nightmares, and withdrawing from social interaction with other humans. BT had, once, tried to encourage Cooper to speak to someone. Cooper had been less receptive to the idea than Lastimosa ever was.

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“There’s no shame in asking for help.” It was another night that Cooper had come to the hanger and asked if he could embark. BT had never denied him the request, especially since it was one of the few ways Cooper was willing to get some sleep. “Lastimosa did, several times.”

“It’s not that simple, BT.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to look…” Cooper stopped talking, his tone suddenly becoming agitated. “What are people gonna think if it gets out, huh? Hero of Harmony has nightmares? The guy who got a field promotion he way I did had a panic attack over a goddamn paper _bag_ flying across the lunch room…”

“Cooper, did you have a panic attack recently?”

“ _No_ …maybe…I don’t know… _Jesus_ , can we forget I said that?”

“You know I remember everything that happens to me.”

“ _God_ , BT, that’s not what…” For a moment, the only sound over the cockpit was Cooper breathing in and out, slowly and heavily. He sounded more tired than before when he spoke again. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Just…don’t tell Briggs?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want her to think I can’t handle this. I don’t want anyone to think I can’t handle this.”

BT didn’t understand. He only knew that he was duty-bound to protect his pilot, and sometimes that meant protecting his pilot from himself. Cooper needed that more than Lastimosa, it seemed. “Cooper, I don’t see how anyone could look at your combat performance and consider you anything but capable, regardless of what you feel when the mission is over.”

He thought about pointing out that Cooper’s combat effectiveness would, eventually, suffer if he didn’t get help, but realized that would likely not be what the pilot needed to hear. He was afraid of letting people down. Therefore, the best option would be to reassure him that he would not be letting anyone down.

“For what it’s worth, I would not think any less of you if you sought help, and will continue to vouch for you as I always have.”

Cooper did not respond.

“Jack.” The use of Cooper’s first name elicited a response, as always—Cooper sighed and adjusted his position in the cockpit. “Are you all right?”

“Still here, buddy. Do you mean that?”

“Yes, of course. I told you, I have no intention of losing another pilot.”

Cooper fell silent again. This time, however, it was because he was in the process of disembarking. When he was free of the cockpit and turned to face BT, there was a strange look on his face. He seemed sad, even though he was smiling. “Give me a boost, would you?”

BT held out his hand and raised Cooper to his eye level once the pilot was securely on his hand. Once he was there, Cooper rested his forehead against BT’s chassis. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

He had said that to BT before. When BT encouraged him not to turn himself over to the IMC (“ _I mean, I’m not leaving you_ ”). When they were about to destroy the Fold Weapon. Several times since, always with the same tone.

Tai Lastimosa had been an experienced combat veteran with responsibility he had slowly built his career with the Militia. Jack Cooper was an inexperienced pilot who had a great deal of responsibility thrust on him unexpectedly. For now, he required more protection than Lastimosa did. BT was not human; his mind did not force him to dwell on the loss of his previous pilot, to re-live the event in his every waking moment. But he did think about it. And he had not considered before then that perhaps, he and Cooper might have one thing in common.

They might both need reassurance sometimes.

“Understood,” BT said as the memory of Lastimosa’s passing faded from his mind.

It would be temporary, he was sure. Their lives were not free of risk. BT was duty-bound to protect Jack Cooper; Cooper trusted him. Cooper had promised that he wasn’t going anywhere; BT trusted him.

The next day, Cooper scheduled to speak to someone. It wasn’t long before he was sleeping in his own bed again.

BT was glad.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at screechthemighty. I don't Titanfall blog much but if you ever want to come into my inbox and scream about these boys, I'm down.


End file.
